


a fistful of time

by roipecheur



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Billy Kaplan - Freeform, Cassie Lang - Freeform, Danny Rand - Freeform, Frank Castle/Elektra Natchios - Freeform, Frank Castle/Elektra Natchios/Matt Murdock - Freeform, Luke Cage - Freeform, M/M, Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios - Freeform, Sam Chung - Freeform, Tommy Shepherd - Freeform, past Matt Murdock/Natasha Romanoff, teddy altman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roipecheur/pseuds/roipecheur
Summary: An "other people find out" fic, spanning decades.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 18
Kudos: 52





	a fistful of time

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: There is one scene where the POV character thinks Frank is assaulting Matt. He's not, and you as the reader should know that going in, but it's still a little heavy and wanted to warn for that without using the non-con archive warning because that's not what it is.
> 
> Also, canon-typical violence, canon-typical Frank being kind of ambivalent about dying. 
> 
> I only tagged Frank, Matt, and the POV characters in the corresponding section. The rest are in additional tags and don't have as big a part. Same for the ships.
> 
> I pull in a lot from the comics here as opposed to the MCU. If you're confused or new to comics (I am also relatively new to comics) and want to know more, please see the end notes. But, I tried to include enough context that you don't NEED to do that. 
> 
> Thanks @ brandywine421 for the beta and catching my dumb typos!

The height of August made the air sticky even at the tender hour of seven in the morning, and as he ran up the tenement steps, Foggy felt it in every drop of sweat. He stopped on the third-floor landing to wheeze out his breath, made more difficult when he laughed, half-hysterical, and caused a passing old lady to draw her purse closer in alarm. Matt _was_ always telling him to get more cardio.

If this was his way of doing it, though, Foggy was gonna kill him. He heaved up the last few steps and pounded his fist against Matt’s door. “Matt!” he shouted. “You’d better be alive in there!”

No answer, just like Matt hadn’t answered his phone all night. And after what he’d seen on the news . . . “Ok! I’m coming in!” Foggy warned, pulling out the key he’d made Matt give him the last time he’d had to break in, and had found his best friend half-dead on his living room floor.

The apartment was still, not an item out of place, sunlight streaming peacefully through the windows. Foggy wanted to believe in that peace, but his throat closed up in panic. It was _too_ clean, and he’d have given anything for Matt’s suit strewn across the floor, a few drops of blood, even. Any evidence that he’d made it home alive.

“Matt?” he called softly as he stepped into the unit proper, stupidly wishing he had some kind of weapon. Like he’d have any idea what to do with one if he did, like it’d do any good against someone who could take Matt out.

Rounding a corner, he saw the door to Matt’s bedroom, slid maybe two-thirds of the way closed. Plenty of room for him to peer through, so he did, squinting at the darkness. “Matt?”

A vague shape on the bed appeared, and, thank god, moved. “Nelson?” a voice asked, sending whatever relief Foggy felt to a screeching halt. It was a man’s voice, not Matt’s, though somehow familiar.

As his eyes adjusted, Foggy saw a figure sit up on the far side of the bed, hand coming to rest on the nightstand—no, on a gun _on_ the nightstand. A gun, Foggy realized, that had very nearly been pointed at him. The covers came with the man, and then Matt’s back faced him, bare except for the bandages taped across it, stained with crimson lines of blood.

Matt groaned and stiffened, jumped up in the next second with one leg already out of bed.

“Jesus, don’t move so fast,” Frank Castle said. Foggy recognized him now, and recognized also that his jaw was somewhere in the vicinity of the floor. “You’re gonna pull your stitches, you idiot.”

“Foggy, what—what are you doing here?” Matt asked, rubbing a bleary hand across his face. He was naked save for boxers and those bandages, not only on his back, but his chest and arms and legs and stomach, too many of them, everywhere Foggy could see.

Foggy swallowed and said, “You weren’t answering your phone.”

“Nelson,” Frank said. “Can you give us a minute?”

It wasn’t a suggestion. Foggy nodded jerkily and slid the door shut.

Through it, he heard Frank talk. “Thought you’d hear anyone coming.”

“Foggy and were roommates all through college and all through law school,” Matt told him. “If I registered him as a threat every time he came and went, I never would’ve gotten any sleep.”

Whatever they said next was lost on Foggy; he went to Matt’s kitchen table and sat down heavily.

A few minutes later, Matt joined him, wearing a loosely-tied silk robe that was probably all his torn-up skin could stand. Frank, thankfully also dressed in a t-shirt and pajama pants, breezed past them into the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked.

“Sure,” Foggy croaked out. He needed some kind of chemical assistance for this, and it was too early to drink. “Why not?” Then, he turned his attention to Matt and asked flatly, “What the hell happened to you?”

“Triads. Ninjas,” Matt said, and yawned. “’M I late for work?”

The confusion in his voice and on his face made Foggy’s heart hammer, which, in turn, made Matt wince. Damned super-ears. “No, Matt. It’s seven in the morning, and it’s Sunday.”

“Oh,” Matt said blankly. “Ok.”

Foggy didn’t ask if he was ok because he clearly wasn’t, and Matt would say yes if he _did_ ask, and then Foggy would probably yell at him loud enough for the whole building to find out Matt’s secret. He took a deep breath instead and asked, “What’s Frank doing here?”

“He helped,” Matt said shortly, and Foggy figured that was all he was getting. He sat there glaring and waited for his coffee.

It came, and oatmeal with it, plunked down in front of Matt.

“I’m not—” Matt began.

“Eat,” Frank snapped. “You need the energy to heal.”

Shockingly, Matt stuck his spoon in the bowl without further argument and slowly began to eat. Frank sat next to him and rested his arm across the back of Matt’s chair like it was the kind of thing he did all the time.

“You ever seen a circular saw?” Frank asked, and, after a second, Foggy realized Frank was talking to him.

He sipped at his coffee—perfect, which annoyed him to no end. “Yes,” he said.

“Ok, so, picture what the blade looks like, on the end of a long chain, and some guy tossing it around. You follow?”

“Yes,” Foggy said again.

“That, times three,” Frank said, and tilted his head towards Matt. “He’s gonna need a new suit.”

The coffee turned sour in Foggy’s stomach. “Three blades, or three guys?”

“Both, actually,” Matt said.

“Three guys?” Frank asked, turning to Matt incredulously.

“I took out two before you got there,” Matt said, and then, defensively, “Did you think I let _one_ guy do all this?”

Frank looked at him a second longer with an expression that could curdle milk, and then faced forward again with a shake of his head. “Mary, mother of fuckin’ God,” he swore, and rather than clutching his Catholic pearls like Foggy would’ve expected, Matt just smiled faintly.

“And the third guy?” Foggy asked.

“Knees and elbows,” Frank said, and mimed shooting a gun. “Hard to throw anything like that.”

The conversation died down, and Foggy’s brain ran a mile a minute while he drank his coffee and Matt ate his oatmeal. By the end of it, Matt looked like he was going to fall asleep in the empty bowl.

“Should get you back to bed,” Frank said, and gently raked Matt’s hair back from his face in a way that made Foggy feel like that time in college when he’d overestimated his magic mushroom tolerance. “I’ll walk him out.”

“’Mk,” Matt mumbled, and let Frank help him up, and god, Foggy thought. He’d fucking _pay_ for Matt to listen to him like that, especially when it came to taking care of himself. They disappeared back into Matt’s bedroom and left him staring down the remains of the oatmeal like they could give him answers, like the off-brand of tea leaves from the fortune teller down the street.

When Frank returned, he wore street clothes and met Foggy at the door like he’d anticipated his next words. “Take a walk with me,” Foggy said.

Cut to ribbons or not, he didn’t want to have this conversation anywhere near Matt’s sensitive ears, but the street wasn’t the right place either. Silently, Foggy walked through the waking streets with Frank at his side, poorly disguised in a baseball cap and hoodie. Without the skull, though, no one looked at him twice.

Foggy unlocked the door to the office a measly ten minutes later and made a mental note to get on Matt’s ass more about showing up to work on time. He waved Frank into a chair in the waiting room and took one across from it, and it only occurred to him at that very moment that he’d shut himself in here with a mass murderer, and no one else knew where he was.

But he was too pissed off to be scared. “What the fuck happened last night?” he asked.

“Told you what happened,” Frank said with an affected frown.

“I mean with you and Matt,” Foggy said.

A muscle worked in Frank’s jaw. “He’s your friend. Ask him.”

“I’m asking you.” Foggy ran an agitated hand through his hair. “He was—he was out of it. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“He was going on twenty-some hours on about three hours of sleep, got sliced all to shit, and then only got another few hours before you came knockin’,” Frank said, and grinned. “And I think he really doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Of course he didn’t. But maybe Frank would. “How long?” Foggy asked.

“You should really be askin—”

“I’m. Asking. You.”

“A year and a half. On and off. Give or take,” came Frank’s clipped-off response.

A _year_ and a— Foggy sprung to his feet and started to pace, then remembered something that made him stop. “Didn’t he turn you in, like, what? Six months ago?”

“Touching each other’s dicks don’t mean we magically agree on everything,” Frank said with a snort. “”Sides, I wasn’t there for long.”

He never was, Foggy reflected as he sat again, like someone had dialed gravity up to eleven. “Is this—” he broke off, hesitated. Maybe it wasn’t any of his goddamn business, but then again, maybe it was. “Is this just sex, or—”

“I care about him,” Frank said, softly but immediately, before Foggy could finish. “I mean, we ain’t going on dinner dates, but I don’t want to see him hurt if that’s what you want to know.”

It was, and Foggy nodded. “If you hadn’t shown up last night,” he said, and had to steel himself before continuing, “would he be dead?”

“Yeah,” Frank said, and looked away. And if there’d been any doubt before that Frank was telling the truth, that single word and the look on his face erased it.

“Ok,” Foggy said. Matt would’ve been dead, but he wasn’t. He was alive, and he’d heal, and Foggy would focus on that. “Did you kill anyone last night?”

“No,” Frank said. “He wouldn’t let me help him anymore if I did.”

Foggy believed him on both counts, but he also thought of Matt’s bloodstained bandages, and the way he hadn’t even known what day it was, his sharp mind turned fuzzy. “Frank,” he said. “In the future, if you see someone trying to kill him and it looks like they’re going to succeed—”

“I know, I know,” Frank said, and rolled his eyes. “Try to keep it non-lethal.”

“No! Fucking kill them!” Foggy said, and felt a little gratified when Frank’s head snapped up and he fixed him with a disbelieving stare—Frank had knocked him off-kilter earlier, but he’d gotten back at him now.

“You, uh. You feeling ok, counselor?” Frank asked.

Foggy didn’t know _what_ he was feeling, but it was a far cry from _ok._ “I can’t stop Matt from doing whatever the hell it is he thinks he should be doing. God knows, I’ve tried,” he said. “Which means, I can’t stop him from throwing himself into life-threatening situations at the drop off a hat. All I can do is try to keep him alive. So, if you see a shot, you take it, and I promise you, I will fix things with Matt, and I will represent you if necessary. Pro bono.”

“So much for the law, huh?” Frank commented, but quirked an eyebrow as if amused, or maybe just intrigued.

“We’re talking about killing someone in defense of a third party,” Foggy replied neatly. “There’s plenty of legal precedent for that, and I’m very good at my job. So,” he said, and held out his hand, “Do we have a deal?”

“Ok,” Frank said, and they shook on it.

A pad of paper and pen lay on a nearby table, and Foggy grabbed them and scribbled a number down, tore the top page off. “You should go back to Matt,” he said. “But if you need a break, or some food or something, give me a call.”

Frank accepted the paper, and blinked down at the number like it was one of those weird optical illusions they printed in the newspaper. “Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” Foggy told him, and when Frank left, lay spread eagle on the floor of his office. From that vantage point, he noticed the stain in the ceiling tile they’d just replaced two months ago was back, meaning they had a leak again. Then, he covered his eyes with his arm, and, for awhile, didn’t notice anything at all.

*

Mid-swing from one rooftop to the next, Peter let himself freefall for a few seconds before his web caught him, and would’ve whooped for joy if someone hadn’t screamed for him to shut the fuck up when he’d done that the last time. To be fair, that’d been three a.m. pushing four and he _had_ been kinda loud, but if you’d just saved the whole city from Doc Ock, you’d think people would cut you _some_ slack. Not in New York.

In late afternoon, with the sun just beginning to dip behind the buildings and rush hour still winding down, it was unlikely he’d get the same kind of treatment, but he didn’t want anything to ruin his mood. He was free, free of the omega drive, free of his unpaid side-gig of playing Matt Murdock’s bodyguard, and most importantly and especially free of following him around on his godforsaken dates like the world’s most bored stalker.

He’d nearly made it out of Hell’s Kitchen when something snagged his attention and made him stop. It wasn’t his spidey-sense, exactly, more like his gut sense, but that was enough for him to do a circuit of the block again and see what was _bugging_ him, heh, pun intended.

And there it was—a body in motion, walking back and forth across a nearby roof. Silhouetted against the sky, Peter couldn’t make out any features, and rooftop access wasn’t exactly unusual for this part of town, and yet. And _yet._ That particular roof had, until very recently, provided shelter for Matt’s day job right until _someone_ had blown it to smithereens, and was still only in the very early stages of repair, composed solely of planks and tarp. So, he circled closer, taking the long way around so he could approach unseen, and found that very same _someone_ balancing on the planks with all the skill and grace of the meanest alley cat tiptoeing across a barbed-wire fence. Frank Castle, a.k.a. the Punisher.

Just like that, Peter’s day went from great to shit.

He ought to warn Matt, he thought, mentally pushing his late-night plans of beer and a movie after he finished his patrol back by half an hour, and was about to when he saw the man himself land on the edge of the roof in a crouch.

That settled it, then, Peter thought. He’d leave them to it—they’d faced off so many times that no one, not even them, had an accurate count anymore, and Matt could more than handle anything Frank might throw at him. So, he should go. He should do his own patrol and trust Matt to—to launch himself at the Punisher, sending them both crashing through the tarp so quickly that Peter failed to catch exactly how that happened.

With a long-suffering sigh, Peter shot out a web and landed on the side of the law offices of Nelson & Murdock. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he guessed, if you had to pay for it, the explosion had blown some of the windows out, too, and he’d landed close enough to one that he could hear. Meaning that Matt could also hear him, and smell him, and taste whatever he’d eaten in the past week, probably (gross), but this time, Peter counted it as a bonus. His presence told Matt he’d have an ally in case things went south.

“It’s gone, Frank. You know that,” Matt said. “So, I’ll ask again. What the hell are you doing here?”

Peter heard the tread of footsteps across a concrete floor, and Frank spoke. “Maybe I still want something.”

“Come and get it,” Matt said, and Peter hit his forehead against the brick just hard enough to hurt as he heard a scuffle start within. Sometimes, he wished Matt would have an evil phase so just he could smack him like he deserved.

The fight inside suddenly vanished into silence. Peter listened so hard he thought he might pop a blood vessel, and checked his spidey-sense. Quiet, but something still felt . . . off. He lifted his head enough to look through the window and saw only junk piles from the partially rebuilt office, and the setting sun did nothing to illuminate the gloom.

If Matt had won, he really should’ve heard something by now. Peter ducked his head back down and took a good, hard look at his spidey-sense. _Are you sure nothing’s wrong?_ he imagined asking.

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ it said.

Unbelievable. That’s what he got for working with Wade, the damn thing always spoke in emojis for _weeks_ afterward.

He was still dithering—that was an Aunt May word, _dithering—_ when he heard Matt again. He didn’t speak, but the noise he made, barely audible and something akin to a whimper, had Peter swinging through the window, mindful of the broken glass.

It took him a minute to find them among the construction materials, cans of paint and tarp-covered desks, but then another sound came from behind a stack of pipes. Carefully, Peter looked around it, and he saw them—and froze.

So, the thing about suits, a thing he’d learned the hard way like a lot of people did when they were first starting out, is that you needed a way to pee without taking the whole thing off. You didn’t want to run from the cops or the latest supervillain with your whole ass out, and you _certainly_ didn’t want it to end up on YouTube. Matt’s suit, like Peter’s own, had a slit down the crotch. He’d never thought about that before, but he was forced to now, because Matt was on his knees with Frank behind him, and one of Frank’s hands was busy twisting Matt’s arm behind his back, and the other . . . the other was in that slit up to his wrist.

Something in Peter went brittle and snapped. He kicked Frank in the side hard enough that he fell away from Matt, rolled, and came to his feet halfway across the room. Belatedly, Peter hoped that hadn’t hurt Matt, but he hadn’t considered that until after he’d done it. He also, he realized, hadn’t considered using his webs because he’d wanted to hit Frank, wanted to hurt him for what he was doing in a way that was more Daredevil’s style than friendly-neighborhood-Spiderman, more leaving someone beaten to the point of hospitalization as a warning to others than leaving them hanging upside down from a lamppost, wrapped in webs and semi-comical. He got between Matt and Frank and faced the latter with his hands balled into fists.

“Sexual assault is a new low, Frank. Even for you,” Peter said. “I don’t know why, but I thought you were above that.”

Frank raised his hands in front of him as if to show he wasn’t a threat, but kept his eyes on Peter as he stalked past him, for all the world like a predator. “Don’t give a shit what you think,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

Which was for the best, no matter how much Peter wanted to web him in the most uncomfortable position he could manage and turn him in—he knew enough about victim advocacy to know that whatever did or didn’t happen to Frank should be Matt’s decision—but Matt had other ideas.

“Frank, wait,” he said, getting to his feet and pushing his way past a dumbfounded Peter to grab Frank’s arm. Matt took his mask off as he went, and trepidation reminiscent of a parent-teacher conference settled in Peter’s chest.

 _Oh no,_ he thought. _Serious conversation time._

“He wasn’t assaulting me,” Matt told him. “What you saw—it was consensual.”

“But—he hit you,” Peter said without thinking. “And he had your arm all twisted up, and—”

And a blush crept up Matt’s neck almost dark enough to match his suit, and Frank stared resolutely at a point on the floor near his feet. And, Peter’s spidey-sense decidedly wasn’t kicking him in the skull like it should’ve been, and that meant—oh, god. Oh, _god._ He’d interrupted their _kinky time._ That _also_ meant, he thought, cursing the universe and himself and Matt fucking Murdock most of all, that he’d been freed of following Matt around on his stupid dates, and the first thing he’d done was unknowingly follow him on another one of his _stupid fucking dates._

 _Don’t say it,_ he thought. _Don’t say it, he’ll shoot you, don’t you dare fucking say it—_

“So,” Peter’s voice said without his permission. “I see you’ve started dating again.”

To his great relief, Matt laughed, and Frank even smiled. Matt’s hand slid down into his, and Frank looked at him all soft and surprised like he couldn’t really believe what he was seeing. Fair enough; Peter couldn’t, either. Frank really hadn’t been assaulting Matt, but he’d been willing to _let Peter think that,_ to burn up what little goodwill he had in the hero-slash-vigilante community—which, despite his whole lone-wolf thing, he sometimes desperately needed—to keep it a secret if Matt didn’t want him to know.

Matt slipped his mask back over his face and gave Frank’s hand a squeeze before letting go. “What do you say we take this somewhere more private?” he asked.

“Thought this was private,” Frank said, and turned to Peter, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why didn’t you hear him?”

“Because you’re very distracting,” Matt said. One foot on the sill of a broken window, he asked, “Are you coming, or what?”

“After you,” Frank said.

The _way_ he said it sounded a little like an innuendo, and made Peter want to scrub his ears, and possibly his brain. “Gah,” he muttered.

“Peter,” Matt said over his shoulder, making him jump. “I appreciate what you were trying to do, but don’t interrupt us again.”

“Tell anyone, and I’ll shoot you,” Frank added.

“Frank!” Matt said, and, to Peter, “He won’t shoot you.”

Partly because he wasn’t planning on it, anyway, and partly to be safe, Peter said, “I won’t tell anyone.”

With that, Matt threw him a mock-salute and jumped out the window, and Frank started to follow, but paused and touched his hand to the spot on his side where Peter’s foot had landed. “Good kick,” he said. “I guess you’re not all gimmick.”

And, before Peter could decide whether to apologize or thank him for the weird compliment, Frank was gone. He stood there a moment longer in the deepening dusk, reeling, and then shook himself and left through a window on the opposite side of the building. He swung his way through downtown, and, as he passed the clock on Grand Central Station, noticed that he’d only lost half an hour, after all.

*

On the plus side, knowing Daredevil’s secret identity made it much easier to reach him on short notice, which was necessary more often than Jess would like. On the downside, it sometimes meant he called in a favor, and she spent her day off on guard duty rather than taking her daughter to the park. Jess took another bite of her roast beef sandwich and refocused her binoculars on the courthouse from her vantage point of a rooftop across the street. Sure, Matt _could_ take out any would-be assassins of his star witness all by his lonesome, but not without revealing his identity. Unlike her, he’d made the costumed hero thing work, and he had a lot to lose if he got found out.

Besides, it was a nice enough day for a stakeout, and the lunch he’d bribed her with wasn’t half-bad, she thought, as she moved on to the potato chips. She did a sweep of the surrounding area, over the streets and buildings, and stopped as something caught her eye. It wasn’t much, just a glint of sunlight on glass, but her instincts told her that it warranted more attention. And part of being a good P.I. was trusting your instincts. She located the glint again, zoomed in with her binoculars, and swore in a spray of potato chip crumbs.

The Punisher, on the roof, with a sniper rifle. Well, well. That was interesting for several reasons, not the least of which being that he’d died in a helicopter crash last summer. Pulling out her phone, Jess shot off a quick text to Luke and Danny. Calling them both for a single guy without any special abilities was usually overkill, but Jess wasn’t going to be the sucker that underestimated Frank Castle. The fact that people often underestimated _her_ might have had something to do with it—even if they knew about the super-strength, it was hard to wrap your brain around how strong she really was—but Frank didn’t even _have_ any powers. He was just a guy with a lot of guns, a lot of skill, and a lot of rage that had pulled him through situations that, by all rights, should’ve killed him a dozen times over. In a way, that made him scarier than the ones who could destroy the planet with their minds. At least there was a good, obvious reason why _they_ weren’t dead.

But Luke could draw his fire while Danny punched him unconscious, and all Jess had to do was sit tight and wait for them to show up. That plan worked real well until the flash of Frank’s scope moved, and she watched him disassemble his rifle, get up, and disappear from view. She checked her phone—no new texts. Shit.

Jess balled up the remains of her lunch in its paper bag and descended the fire escape until she got close enough to the alley below to see the pavement already cracked. It paid to check, and it cost too much to get a bill from the city for ‘property damage’. Not in dollars, as Matt had gotten her off scot-free save for the favor she owed him, but that was how she’d ended up watching the courthouse in case any gunmen showed up. And now, one had.

She set off at a brisk walk, as running attracted too much attention and she wasn’t dressed like a jogger, and called Matt. “Hey. Guess who isn’t dead?” she said to his voicemail, his phone off like it always was in court. “I’m tailing Frank Castle. So, if you don’t hear from me, you’ll know where to start.”

At the intersection closest to Frank’s makeshift sniper’s nest, Jess scanned the crowd, tapping her foot against the curb and running through possible routes he could’ve taken. Then, she caught sight of a black trenchcoat flapping around a corner and smirked to herself. Sometimes, you got lucky. She formed her right hand into a fist and followed.

Other people might underestimate Jess’ strength, but she knew her own abilities intimately well, up to and including how easily she could kill a man with a single punch. If she hit with her full strength, even someone like Luke wouldn’t be safe—his skin might not break, but she could rattle his brain in his skull hard enough for it to rupture. So, when she snuck up on Frank as he slipped through the crowd and ducked down a side alley, she had to calibrate it perfectly. Hard enough to knock him out, but not so hard she sent his head rolling into the street.

It worked; her fist connected, and he dropped with barely a grunt. Jess flexed her hand and looked up to see what he’d been heading towards, and sent up thanks to whatever capricious god might have smiled on her today. Frank’s battle van. Meaning, she didn’t have to carry his sorry ass through Manhattan. She reached into his pocket and pushed aside a couple of bullet cartridges to retrieve a key, and hoisted his unconscious body onto her shoulder. Yeah, when he found out she’d driven his van, he’d probably want to kill her, but given the amount of people who _also_ wanted to kill her, he’d have to get in line.

Jess deposited Frank in the passenger seat and injected a mild sedative to keep him under. She always carried them, now, vials of reinforced plastic that would test even her strength to break, a security measure in case she ran into the Purple Man again, or any other mind-controlling dickweed. The old fear threatened to constrict her airway, and she resorted to an old breathing exercise Trish had taught her until it subsided. She’d never admit to anyone how often she used it.

A quick look at her phone confirmed that neither Luke nor Danny had answered her text. Jess sighed, added Matt to the thread, and sent, _Meet me at the office._

Alias Investigations wasn’t much, but it was hers, and home to useful lengths of rope and some very sturdy chairs. She tied Frank to one and sat on another backwards, folded her arms across the top and waited for him to wake up.

Frank fucking Castle. She’d never really believed he was dead, but after most of a year, you started to wonder. He wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who kept quiet. Matt might not have been able to positively identify his remains among the charred mess of bone in the morgue, but he hadn’t been able to positively rule it out, either. It’d been another favor she owed him, pulling this string and that to get them into the room with a minimum of questions.

“There’s too much damage,” he’d said, knuckles white around his cane. “Those aren’t his teeth, though,” he’d added, fingers brushing over a jawbone.

Leaning against the cold, metal lockers housing the dead, Jess had frowned and asked, “You know what his _teeth_ feel like? What, did he bite you or something?”

He hadn’t answered, but he did pickpocket a pair of dog tags from police evidence, and she’d pretended not to see. The whole thing had hit Matt unexpectedly hard, and she didn’t really get his deal with Frank, their interactions openly antagonistic at best and violent at worst, but even a conflict like that provided a constant. Its absence might remind you of your own fragile body, or just that everything ends.

In front of her, Frank stirred and blinked himself awake. “Jones,” he said. “I see you’ve redecorated.”

That’d been a necessity after the fire, but she wasn’t here to discuss the wallpaper. “Frank,” she replied. “You’re looking good for a guy who got blown up.”

He stared back at her placidly, without so much as a shrug. Fine; they’d get right to it. “What brings you back to the city?” she asked.

No answer, but she hadn’t expected one. She looked at Frank, really looked, and tried again. “You were _awfully_ close to the courthouse,” she observed.

A flicker in his gaze, twitch of his lip, and Jess had to hold back a smile. _Gotcha,_ she thought.

“You chum the water, you get sharks,” Frank said, as good as admitting it.

“Then why’d you leave?” Jess asked.

“They ain’t coming today,” Frank told her.

Chin resting on the back of her hand, she asked, “How do you know?”

“I know,” Frank said. Jess believed him, and was still figuring out her next angle when he asked, “You were keeping an eye on him?”

“Who?” she asked, playing dumb.

“Murdock,” he said flatly, with a look like he knew what she was doing and found it distinctly unamusing.

She wanted to laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about him.”

“Didn’t know you were running a charity, here,” Frank said, but his Adam’s apple bobbed and his lips went thin for the barest moment.

Aw, he _was_ worried. How sweet. “Daredevil put me up to it,” she said, just to see what he’d do.

“How is he?” Frank asked, not looking at her.

Oh, this was _good._ Jess couldn’t wait to tell Matt and see whether he’d piss himself laughing or get all weird and paranoid about it, either way, better than primetime. “You can ask him yourself in a minute,” she said as her phone buzzed, and she shot a text back to let them know she was fine.

It might’ve been the shit lighting in her office, but she could’ve sworn Frank went a bit pale. Jess drummed her fingers on the back of her chair, her mind on something that had bothered her for awhile, a question she’d never thought she’d be able to ask.

“So, remember that time you shot us?” she began.

“Tranq rounds,” Frank said dismissively. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that.”

Jess shrugged; she hadn’t been for awhile, especially not after what she’d found out. “I looked into it,” she said. “I’m a P.I., that’s what I do. And I dug up the strangest thing.” She paused there, dragging it out, assessing Frank’s reaction. “Diamondback set up an ambush, and we were about to run right into it. We could be dead if it wasn’t for you. And when I asked the Night Nurse how we got to her clinic, she said she got an anonymous phone call and found us already laid out when she got there. Weird, dontcha think?”

If he did, Frank kept it to himself. He sat still as a statue and outwardly impassive, but with a tension in him that she could practically feel in the air.

“I kinda get why you didn’t just talk to us. You’re not exactly a people-person,” Jess continued. “But, what I _don’t_ get is why you didn’t explain that to Luke instead of fighting with him and getting your ass sent to jail.”

“I don’t explain shit to people who attack me,” Frank said harshly.

Jess sat back and snorted. “God, you’re dumb _and_ stubborn,” she said. “No wonder you and Daredevil can’t leave each other alone.”

Something unreadable passed over Frank’s face, but a door opened before she had a chance to poke at it. “Hey—” she said, turning as she saw Luke and Danny, and then faltering as Matt walked in, marched right up to Frank, and punched him hard enough that his head snapped back. So far, so normal, except that Matt was still dressed for court without so much as sunglasses to hide his face, and Frank didn’t look the least bit surprised by his entrance.

“You let me think you were dead,” Matt said.

In response, Frank stuck his chin out defiantly and said, “I learned that trick from you.”

And, as Jess was still wrapping her mind around that exchange, Matt grabbed Frank’s face in both hands and kissed him. It wasn’t a quick kiss, either, or a gentle one—this was full-on tonsil hockey, and Frank reciprocated as much as the ropes tying him down would allow. When Jess glanced at Luke and Danny, they appeared about as shocked as she felt.

By the time Matt pulled back, Frank looked a bit dazed, and also like he’d forgotten everyone else in the room.

“Where the hell have you been?” Matt demanded.

“Like you give a shit,” Frank snarled.

“Don’t you dare turn this on me, Frank!” Matt shouted back. “After what you did, you—”

“After what _I_ did? If I hadn’t been there, they would’ve—”

“Bullshit! That’s bullshit—”

“Your way wouldn’t have worked and you—”

“You don’t know that! You don’t know that!”

“You’re the one who said to stay gone!” Frank yelled at a volume that rattled a spoon inside a glass on Jess’ desk, ending the shouting match.

“I didn’t—” Matt started, and breathed out hard through his nose. Half-turning to Jess, he asked, “Where did you find him?”

Jess cleared her throat. “Uh. Watching the courthouse.”

“I thought you’d know,” Frank said, quiet like a counterpoint to how loud he’d been moments ago. “When there wasn’t a body. I thought you’d know.”

“I thought I did,” Matt said. “But after six months . . .” He trailed off, and Jess noticed that his hands were shaking.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of traffic outside on the road. Jess licked her lips, but no words came to her, and Luke and Danny, hovering uncertainly in the background, weren’t any greater help.

“Jess,” Matt said, in the perfectly polite voice that meant he was about to blow a gasket, “may I please borrow your knife?”

She pulled the switchblade from her pocket and tossed it to him. Catching it neatly, Matt set to work cutting Frank’s bonds, and Jess felt a twinge of regret. Those were some good ropes.

Once Frank stood, and finished rolling his wrists and ankles, Jess jingled his keys and threw them over. “It’s out back,” she said.

Frank nodded—they were good. A weight Jess hadn’t been aware of lifted from her shoulders; she really hadn’t wanted the Punisher after her, gunning for revenge.

“Uh,” Danny said.

Folding his arms, Luke asked, “What are you gonna do with him?”

“Do you want a list?” Matt quipped.

“Nope,” Luke said.

“I’m good,” Danny said, throwing his hands up.

“Sure,” Jess said, grinning cheekily.

That got a smile from Matt and a snort from Frank, and then a lazy wave as he followed Matt out the back door.

“Are we really just letting him go?” Luke asked.

Jess stood up and stretched her stiff limbs, too long in that chair. “Do you wanna get in the middle of that mess? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

“Point,” Luke said.

“Hey, Jess?” Danny asked. “Do you still have that bottle I gave you?”

She did; Danny’s shit was good enough to save for special occasions. They gathered around her desk to toast to the day’s shenanigans, and after the second round, Jess felt laughter bubble up in her throat. She tried to hold it in and couldn’t, giggling behind her palm like a teenager.

“What?” Luke asked.

Regaining control of herself, Jess said, “Matt knew what his teeth felt like. When we went to the morgue,” Jess explained. “He said he couldn’t find Frank’s teeth.”

“Ok,” Danny said, nonplussed.

“He’s touched Frank’s teeth. I mean”—she laughed again, couldn’t help it—“I think he sticks his fingers in his mouth.”

“Ugh, Jess!” Danny complained.

But she wasn’t done yet. “He sticks his fingers in his mouth, and then he sticks them—”

“Jess!” Luke and Danny wailed together, Luke with his hands over his ears, and Jess wheezed until she thought she’d bust a rib from laughing.

*

The barricade wouldn’t hold for long, but the well-stocked kitchen they’d found themselves in had all sorts of toys. Reaching down, Elektra pushed the buttons on the inside of her heels that turned them into flats and then slid a knife out of the block on the counter, testing its weight and itching for the familiarity of her sai. She never would’ve gotten them past security, though, so this would have to do. Looking across the counter, she saw Matthew’s choice of a weapon, and laughed.

“A rolling pin?” she giggled. “Shall I fetch you an apron and a bonnet?”

“We don’t all stab people, Elektra,” Matthew said pissily, but he’d been pissy all night.

“Now might be the time to start,” Frank commented as he rifled through the cabinets.

Matthew went stiff as he spoke, and not for the first time, Elektra wanted to hit him. He was the one who invited himself to this little soirée on the very flimsy pretense that it was in ‘his city’, like that meant he needed to be up her arse the whole time she was here. She’d considered telling him to fuck off, but that would’ve only led to him skulking around in that ridiculous devil suit and like as not blowing her cover before she was ready. As it was, her cover _had_ been blown before she was ready, but how was she supposed to know that of all the times she’d fucked over the Yakuza, this was going to be the day they’d finally grow a brain about it? Oh well, she thought. At least this way she got to see Matthew in a tux again.

And Frank, for that matter. He cleaned up quite well, and she appreciated it almost as much as Matthew decidedly did not. She worked with Frank on occasion when their interests overlapped, and hadn’t come to regret it yet; Frank was dependable, thorough, and _very_ good in bed. They’d flown in together from the last job, and Matthew smelled them on each other as soon as he’d entered her penthouse. Honestly, she’d seen him look less offended walking in on her with a room full of corpses.

“Is something wrong, Matthew?” she’d asked silkily.

Shutting his open mouth, he’d only said, “No.”

Which there had _better_ not be. Good god, it was real rich of him to expect her to be available whenever he came calling, especially when he rarely was. He had her between the women he pretended he liked, soft and pretty and like as not to get killed by one of his many enemies if he didn’t break their dear little hearts first, and far superior to the murdering likes of _her._ In all these years, she’d never said a fucking word, and if he’d said something about her and Frank, she might’ve had to stab him a little, just on principle.

In lieu of a weapon, Frank set out a line of boxes and cans and a tray full of silverware. Elektra raised an eyebrow at it and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Improvised explosive,” Frank said, and started piecing things together.

“Just what we need,” Matthew said sarcastically.

Mildly, Frank said, “You’ll thank me when you’re not dead.”

“He will not,” Elektra countered. “He never does.”

Then, Matthew tilted his head in that cute, puppy-dog way of his and said, “I think they found us,” just as something crashed into the kitchen door.

It got cold in Siberia, even in the south near Chita, and even in the summer. And when the plan went bad and your team got scattered, and you were stuck in a cave as the sun set and couldn’t even risk lighting a fire for warmth, you did what you had to do to keep your body temperature up. With very little discussion, she and Frank had made a layer with the thermal blankets in their packs that they’d sleep between, ate a quick, cold dinner, and prepared to settle in for the night.

“So,” she’d said. “Do you want to have sex? It won’t bother me if you say no.”

He’d stared at her for what felt like a very long time, and she’d been half-convinced he was about to seize his own blanket, retreat to a distant corner, and leave her to shiver alone. But then he’d said, “Ok.”

In the several years since, he’d sometimes said yes, and sometimes no, and she’d never let it bother her, just like she’d promised. She liked Frank—he wasn’t the relationship type, or the settling-down type (not after what happened to him, she knew, not anymore), but she wasn’t, either. He was straightforward to the point of bluntness, and he understood her wholly and without reservation in a way that even Matthew didn’t. Elektra might love him for that, if only to herself, if only a little bit.

Back in the present, Frank rolled a knife sharpener across the counter and Matthew picked it up, twirling it in his hand. Elektra half-shrugged in ambivalent approval. It wasn’t Matthew’s baton, and it wasn’t the folding cane he’d lost in the dining room on their mad dash in here, but it was at any sight better than a rolling pin. And, when the door at long last broke and it connected with the forehead of the first moron to push his way through, it worked admirably.

“How many?” she asked him, cleaver in one hand and bread knife in the other—maybe not the most efficient choice, but there was something fun about serrated blades.

“Too many,” Matthew replied grimly.

“Cover me,” Frank said, head bent low over his contraption. “I’m almost done.”

Elektra nodded her assent and kicked one black-clad assailant into two others squeezing through the entrance, tossing the knife sharpener back to Matthew so he could join her in the fray. She looked into the hall—too many, like he’d said, too many for her to spare their lives for the sake of Matthew’s delicate sensibilities. The next one got a knife through his eye socket and into his brain, and when she stepped down on his skull to yank the knife back out, it dissolved into nothing under her foot, leaving only a pile of fabric.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Matthew grin feral, and tossed him a knife. It clicked into place, then, and she could’ve kicked herself—the Hand explained everything from her recent difficulties to the Yakuza’s newfound intelligence. Nothing human still lived in their demon-possessed bodies, which dissolved to nothing when afflicted with a mortal wound, so Matthew didn’t have to hold back, and Elektra watched him as much as she was able. He was glorious like this, swift and vicious, and she wished he could be like this always, the beautiful terror, the perfect killer. But that wasn’t who he was, and she knew that trying to be would only destroy him.

She was still ruminating on this when Frank sent a refrigerator toppling over across the doorway, crushing one of the Hand beneath. They caught their breath in the sudden lull while Frank struck a match and lit a fuse on his improvised device, silverware affixed to the outside and serving as shrapnel.

Grabbing her and Matthew’s arms, Frank said, “C’mon,” and pulled them backwards into the walk-in freezer, where the three of them shoved a shelving unit in front of the door and then crouched down against the back wall, behind some boxes for cover.

The cold air was a relief after their recent exertion, but it would feel unpleasant soon. Elektra wriggled her fingers against the handle of her knife to help the blood circulate, and kept her eyes on the door.

At her side, Frank chuckled. “It’s a good look on you, Red,” he told Matthew. “You should get stabby more often.”

“You should be grateful I’m not, Frank,” Matt replied snappishly. “If I was, you would’ve died the first time we met.”

“Aw,” Frank said, and then in a low, almost sultry voice, “You know it makes my dick hard when you threaten to kill me, and this ain’t the time or the place.”

Elektra’s head whipped around just in time to see Matthew go beet-red and stammer incoherently.

“You keep acting like you got something to be mad about, and you’re gonna make it a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Frank said smartly.

Before Matthew had a chance to respond, if he’d even planned on it, an explosion blew out the entire wall in front of them, and the freezer’s single light went out, plunging them into darkness.

They emerged coughing through the smoke. Matthew navigated through the rubble, taking out the few of the half-dead Hand that remained, and led them back out into the hall past the kitchen. There, emergency lights provided enough to see, although the blaring fire alarms made hearing difficult.

“The rest of the hotel’s evacuating!” Matthew shouted over the noise. “Stairwell’s this way!”

He nearly ran for the exit, forcing them to match his pace to keep up, but Elektra couldn’t blame him. If the alarm hurt her ears, Matthew must feel like it was splitting his skull open. However, he didn’t have to deal with it for long; they blended in easily with the herd of panicked humans stampeding down the stairs, and as some of them had evidently been drawn from their beds by the alarms, they weren’t even the most disheveled. Upon making it to the street, they slipped away quietly from the various emergency vehicles and walked off into the night.

A few blocks away, Frank draped his suit jacket around Elektra’s shoulders. She accepted it with gratitude, but it didn’t stop her from nudging him with her elbow. “You never told me,” she accused.

“I did tell you,” Frank said.

All he had told her, that first time in Siberia, was, “I’ve slept with men before. I probably will again.”

“So have I,” she’d said, unbuttoning her trousers. “You’re not special.”

“Just making sure it don’t bother you,” he’d said plainly. “I don’t fuck people, if it bothers them. Principle of the thing.”

And she’d stepped out of her trousers and said, “Frank, I am far too beautiful to limit myself to one gender.” Which had settled it nicely.

Elektra stuck her arms through the jacket’s sleeves and said, “You weren’t very specific.”

For his part, Matthew ducked his head, his blush visible even in the streetlights.

“It wasn’t for me to tell,” Frank said.

Fair enough, Elektra thought. She supposed it wasn’t. And she was remembering other times, too, like the day she’d sat on a bed in a hotel room on the other side of the world, twisting the sheets between her fingers as she watched the news report, New York in flames (again) and the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen: _Daredevil, presumed dead._ When Frank had sat down beside her and admitted, “I know who he is. And I know you know, ‘cause you used to date in college. Matt,” he’d said, proving it, then offered, “You can talk about him, if you want.”

A self-effacing laugh had escaped her and she’d said, “Typically, my lovers don’t care to hear about my exes.”

But he’d only repeated, “You can talk about him,” almost like he’d wanted her to.

So, they talked about Matthew. They had, she reflected now, walking through the city flanked by both men, talked about Matthew _a lot._

Elektra shot Frank a level look, and stepped around to Matthew’s other side, taking his hand in her own, smiling when Frank took his other. Matthew looked like he might die of embarrassment, but he didn’t pull away.

“Where to now?” she asked. “Matthew’s place is closer, but I do have the bigger bed.”

“I vote yours,” Frank said casually.

“Matthew?” Elektra asked.

“Uh.” He swallowed against his bowtie, and she fantasized about ripping it off, and the rest of his clothes with it. “Your place is fine.”

Leaning in, Elektra kissed his cheek and said, “Excellent.”

Still following her lead, Frank darted in and kissed Matthew’s temple, easier for him to reach, and Matthew smiled dopily. Victory thrilled through Elektra, like she’d just conquered the entire world.

*

At a quarter past two, according to the old, digital clock on the nightstand, Kate gave up on sleeping. She slid out of bed slowly so as not to disturb Eli, but all he did was mutter something and roll over in his sleep. _Lucky,_ she thought, tied her robe, and padded out into the hall.

The floorboards of the old farmhouse creaked beneath her feet, but not, she hoped, loud enough to wake anyone. Cassie’s and Tommy’s doors each stood open a crack, so she peeked in both and saw them sleeping peacefully, Cassie curled up on her side beneath the covers, and Tommy sprawled out and snoring. Teddy and Billy’s door was shut tight, and she left it that way; she didn’t want to walk in on them anymore than she’d want either one walking in on her and Eli.

The ritual complete, she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing and the other covering a yawn, playing back the days’ events in her head and planning for tomorrow. A decent number of refugees who’d fled the city during the latest Kree-Skrull invasion-slash-pissing contest still camped up here in the Catskills, and her team was one of several sent up to sort through and send them back in waves that wouldn’t overwhelm either the infrastructure or supply chains, both of which were a work in progress. Sometimes, Kate couldn’t believe anyone still wanted to live in New York, but homesickness for her own apartment made her smile sardonically. Pot, meet kettle.

She stepped into the kitchen thinking about a glass of water and a midnight snack, and stopped at the discovery that she wasn’t the only one awake. In the opposite corner, Teddy and Billy stood close together, speaking in voices just loud enough for her to hear.

“Then let’s just go back to bed,” Teddy pleaded, sounding exhausted.

“I can’t!” Billy hissed, hands fisted in his hair. “After what we heard, how can I just work with them tomorrow and for however long we’re up here pretending that everything’s fine? I mean, they _know_ about us.”

Teddy sighed. “But you don’t want to talk to them.”

“If they know we were listening to them, they’ll be pissed,” Billy said.

“Doesn’t Daredevil have like, super-hearing?” Teddy asked. “They probably know we’re here already.”

“ _Then why are they still talking about it?”_ Billy demanded in a stage whisper.

“I could shapeshift into a Skrull and distract them. That’d at least shut them up for tonight,” Teddy offered.

Billy seized his wrist and said, “No! That’s too dangerous. I guess I could, uh, _make_ them stop—”

“You want to talk about dangerous?” Teddy asked, interrupting him. “What do you think a guy like the Punisher will do if he ever finds out you messed with his mind?”

“What’s going on?” Kate asked, announcing her presence, and they spun to face her as she approached.

“We were just, uh . . .” Billy began lamely.

“Nothing,” Teddy lied.

For their sakes, Kate hoped they never played poker. “What are they talking about?” she asked.

It was too dark to see Teddy’s face, but Kate recognized the guilty slump of his shoulders. “You can hear them if you—” he gestured towards the window.

Standing on her tiptoes, Kate could just look out of the screened window and see the outlines of their babysitters further down the porch. Resentment made a pit in her stomach—they didn’t need babysitters, and sending some guy with no powers and a blind dude who barely had any to watch over a super-soldier, two mutants, a shapeshifting alien, and someone who could grow and shrink at will was beyond ridiculous.

She’d told Clint as much, when he’d dumped them on her. “Clint, I don’t need a babysitter,” she’d said. “I’m eighteen now. A whole adult.”

And Clint had laughed, ruffled her hair, and said, “Sure you are,” and then left before she could figure out exactly which trick arrow she wanted to shoot directly into his ass.

The thing was, he’d been in favor of it, and Captain America had signed off on it, and now they were stuck with the two old men yakking on her porch and upsetting her friends. “They might not have powers, but they’ve lived a lot of years and gone up against a lot of people who do, and you see who’s still alive,” Clint had told her. “You can learn something from that.” And maybe that would make sense when she was like, fifty and ancient, but it didn’t now.

The voices of Daredevil and the Punisher, or Matt and Frank, as Clint called them, carried easily through the still night air, and filtered through the kitchen window loud and clear.

“The Pope’s an asshole,” Frank said.

“Of course the Pope’s an asshole,” Matt said. “But his opinion is relevant to—”

“So, you admit the Pope’s an asshole.”

“No one can sit at the helm of a structure that old and powerful and _not_ be an asshole,” Matt said, which sounded pretty reasonable to Kate. “But if we’re talking about Catholicism, you can’t just ignore what the Pope says about it.”

A noise followed, like a palm slapping against one of the porch chair’s wooden arms. “No, no, that makes it too simple,” Frank argued. “’Sides, even if this new guy says sodomy’s A-OK, the next one might turn around and call it a cardinal sin. So, if we just look at it textually, in the Bible—”

“You can’t do that,” Matt insisted. “You’re just changing the goalposts again!”

“How is focusing on the Bible changing the goalposts?” Frank asked. “Listen, Jewish people read the Torah—the Old Testament. They interpret it different, but it’s basically got all the same words, and they say there ain’t nothing wrong with it.”

“ _Reform_ Jews say there’s nothing wrong with it. Orthodox Jews—no, damn it!” Matt cursed suddenly. “We’re not talking about Judaism! We’re talking about Catholicism!”

“Ok, ok,” Frank said mildly. “So, I’m just sayin’, for argument’s sake, forget the Pope, forget the Vatican, and—”

Matt scoffed. “Forget the Pope? What are you, a Methodist?”

“You’re a fucking Methodist!” Frank retorted. “Hey, which one of us went to seminary school?”

“Yeah, thirty years ago,” Matt said scathingly. “And how often have you been to Mass since? I go—”

“Every Sunday, every Sunday,” Frank finished for him. “Like a broken record.”

Resting back on her heels, Kate turned to her friends and took in the stiff way they stood apart, Teddy’s arms folded almost protectively over his chest, Billy’s hands clenching and unclenching like he couldn’t decide what to do with them. Rage swept through her like a wildfire, rage and disbelief at the _injustice,_ the utter _stupidity_ of such inane bullshit bringing two good people so low. God, she was going to _kill_ Clint. She spun around and stormed out of the kitchen door and onto the porch, Teddy and Billy following to late to stop her.

“Hey! Assholes!” she snapped, stopping a few feet away from where they’d settled into twin porch chairs, in civilian clothes and unassuming as a pair of middle-aged dads. “Has it maybe occurred to you that your little theological discussion isn’t fucking theoretical for everyone here?”

They froze almost comically, like deer in headlights. In the moonlight, she saw Frank’s eyes flick over her shoulders, doubtless to where Teddy and Billy stood, and then back to her face.

Matt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We’re—I’m sorry,” he said. “We didn’t mean, uh. I didn’t realize you could hear all—”

“ _How_ could you not know?” Kate exploded. “Don’t you have like, super-hearing?”

“I could hear you were in the kitchen, but I wasn’t listening in on your conversation,” Matt said, sounding a bit affronted.

Kate laughed harshly. “Oh, no, because that would be _rude,”_ she said, thick with sarcasm. “Which is _completely different_ from talking about whether Teddy and Billy are going to hell behind their—"

“Hey!” Frank snapped. “One, no one’s going to hell. Trust me, I’ve been to hell, and Mephisto doesn’t give a shit. Two, it ain’t like that,” he said, and looked her in the eye as he gestured to himself and Matt, completely unselfconscious. “I mean, we’ve had sex.”

“Frank!” Matt yelped.

“Oh, come on, they’re all adults, and ain’t none of them bunking alone,” Frank said, waving away his concern. “I thought we were gonna have sex after this.”

“Oh, _are_ we?” Matt said archly.

“What?” Frank asked. “You got someone better to do?”

For a minute, Kate just stared. She was pretty sure she’d felt less disoriented after falling off a building. “Oh,” she said, and hazarded, “Sorry?”

“Don’t apologize for standing up for your friends,” Matt told her with a dimpled, disarming smile. “You didn’t know.”

At her back, Teddy laughed shakily with relief, and she heard his footsteps coming closer. “So, you’re, uh . . .” he started to ask, and then trailed off uncertainly.

“That would explain why you’re arguing like an old, married couple,” Billy commented as he went up to Teddy’s side and threw an arm around his shoulders.

“Well, that too,” Frank said.

God, Kate thought, feeling like the world’s biggest fool. She was going to _kill Clint._ “You’re _married?”_

“It was for a spousal testimonial privilege!” Matt said defensively. “I can’t be compelled to testify against him if we’re married.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank said. “That was one time, and yet whenever I bring up divorce—”

“I’m Catholic. We don’t get divorced,” Matt said loftily.

Frank shook his head and shot Kate a fondly exasperated look. “The Church wouldn’t even recognize our marriage.”

“Then there’s nothing I can do,” Matt said, the picture of innocence.

“Ok, so you’d need to get it recognized in the Church, and then annulled in the Church, before you’d divorce me in court,” Frank said.

Matt shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“Someday, the Church is gonna recognize same-sex marriage,” Frank said to her and Teddy and Billy, and indicated Matt with a tilt of his head. “Then he’ll have to admit he loves me.”

“That has very little to do with marriage,” Matt said.

The way Frank looked at him then could only be described as _sappy,_ and Kate wondered if she had fallen asleep after all and was just having a very weird dream.

“Hm,” Teddy intoned, rubbing his chin in thought. “What about Jesus healing the centurion’s servant?”

Frank rounded on Matt, pointing an accusing finger. “Did you put him up to this?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Matt told him, raising his hands in mock-surrender.

“Teddy!” Billy said.

“What?” Teddy asked. “It is kinda fun if it’s not, y’know. Serious. And”—he smiled sadly—“my mom used to take me to church sometimes. I think it was her way of helping us fit in.”

That renewed the discussion, and after Kate got herself a glass of milk and handful of chocolate chip cookies from the kitchen, she sat on the porch to listen in as she ate. They went back and forth, debating terms in Greek and Latin, Hebrew and Aramaic, from the centurion’s servant to Ruth and Naomi, and did end up pulling in some Jewish interpretations, thanks to whatever Billy could dredge up from his Tanakh study. Eventually, tiredness made her head heavy, and she bid them goodnight and tiptoed back up the stairs and into the room she shared with Eli.

He woke a little as she snuggled under the covers, asked, “Where’d you go?”

“Just downstairs,” she told him with a kiss. “Go back to sleep.”

Taking her own advice, she slept soundly for the rest of the night, and woke up alone and to the smell of breakfast cooking. Kate made her way yawning down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the rest of the team gathered around the table.

“You all need to eat,” Frank was saying as she entered. “We have a busy day ahead of us.”

Tommy leaned back, balancing the chair he sat in on its two back legs. “I thought you were supposed to be scary,” he said.

“Try to skip breakfast, and I’ll get real scary.” Frank brandished a spatula at him—at which Cassie hid a smile behind her hand—and then he caught the back of Matt’s shirt as he tried to sneak past. “You need to eat, too,” Frank told him, pushing a plate into his hand. Kate noticed the lingering way their fingers touched as Matt accepted the plate, and couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before.

As she took the seat next to Eli, she noticed that he’d seen it, too, in the puzzling frown on his face as he looked at them. Kate didn’t want to announce it out loud, or even in a whisper with Matt in the room, but after several years, she and Eli had nonverbal communication down to a tee. She tapped the back of his hand, glanced at the two older men and then back to him without moving her head, and flashed him a knowing smile.

Eli’s brow pinched in reply. _What, really?_

 _Yes, really,_ Kate smiled back.

He smiled, too, amusement and camaraderie and pleasure at being right. Then, Frank set down steaming plates in front of them, and Kate dug in. The pancakes were some of the best she’d ever eaten.

*

She was waiting for him when he arrived at the office that morning, perched on the arm of one of the plush, leather chairs across from his desk. To his credit, Matt didn’t look surprised to see her, though whether that was due to his senses picking up on her presence long before he’d entered the room, or because he’d expected her visit, Natasha didn’t care to guess.

“Hello, Director,” he said. He shut the door behind him with a soft click, and then went to lean against his desk, facing her, arms folded.

“Don’t ‘Director’ me, Matt,” she said. “After all these years?”

“Why not?” Matt asked. “Aren’t you here on business?”

She pushed herself off the chair and took a step forward. “Think of it as a personal favor.”

“The answer’s no,” he said flatly.

Natasha spread her hands wide, a calculated, nonthreatening gesture. “You don’t even know what I want yet.”

“I’m not a killer, Natasha. I never have been, and I’m not starting now.” Matt turned away from her, fingers skimming over Braille-printed papers until he selected the one he wanted. He went to sit in his office chair, reading it by touch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Still the same old Matt, Natasha thought. There was some comfort in knowing he hadn’t changed—at least not on the inside, where it counted. He had more grey hair these days than red, but then again, so did she.

“Like I said, you don’t know what I want yet,” Natasha told him. His fingers stilled on the Braille, his head tilted just a few degrees, and she didn’t allow herself a smile lest he hear it in her breath, in her voice. She had his attention, now. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she commented, meaning the thick carpet, solid oak desk, and matching bookcases, but also the bulletproof glass she tapped her fingers against when she crossed over to the window. “You have a lovely view.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Matt said shortly.

What she’d bet he did know were the several perfect spots for a sniper’s rifle she could see just from this window, and the exact amount of carefully cultivated distance between this corner office and the rest of the firm. “Are you expecting trouble?” she asked.

“Only the usual amount,” he said, and then pushed his chair back from the desk. “What do you want, Nat?”

“He’s holed up in a bunker up near the Canadian border,” she said. “I want you to get him out.”

“That’s not my job. Send in a team,” Matt said.

Turning back to him, Natasha kept her breathing in check, muscles relaxed, voice neutral. “You and I both know that no matter how many agents I send in, they won’t all come back,” she said. “I don’t like to think in terms of acceptable losses unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Distaste curled Matt’s lip. “How economical of you.”

“I’m looking for a solution where no one has to die,” Natasha told him plainly. “He’ll listen to you, Matt. He’ll let you get close.”

The Red Room had trained Natasha in interrogation techniques, tells, how to know someone was lying. She’d learned more at SHIELD, updates and modifications to her arsenal that her work gave her many, many chances to practice. Then she’d met Matt, and a lot of that had been rendered useless. Even without his sunglasses, she couldn’t read his eyes, and the way he received and processed information made all his motions ambiguous. The few years they’d dated hadn’t helped her in that respect; she second-guessed all her interpretations, unsure which were clouded by her own feelings. Watching him now, the way his fingers moved might have been distress or just to feel the currents on the air, the twitch of his nose either due to agitation or simply an errant scent she couldn’t detect. Natasha waited for his response with no hint as to what that might be.

“I need your guarantee,” Matt said finally. “I want you to promise me that you won’t kill him or allow him to be killed, and that if he is to be killed by forces beyond your control, you will inform me as soon as you are able. I won’t be party to his death.”

“You have my word,” Natasha said. “Am I lying?”

She got her answer when he stood. They walked together out of the firm—a far cry from the dingy set of rooms Matt and his partner had first set up in, fresh out of law school and ready to change the world. These offices took up half the building’s floor and had more names etched into the plaque, plus a host of junior partners eager to add theirs. One of these, laughing with a coworker near the water cooler as they passed, was a sharp-witted redhead with her mother’s last name and the source of rumors about which Natasha never planned to inquire. After a quick word to Matt’s secretary, to take his messages and reschedule his appointments, they took the elevator up to her shuttle on the roof.

This time, Natasha did allow herself a smile. Age might have mostly forced Matt off the street, but he’d give up fighting in the courtroom when he keeled over dead.

“How long has it been since you worked in the field?” Natasha asked once they were in the air.

Matt exhaled, and his grip on the arms of his seat loosened. He didn’t like flying, and god knew what it felt like with his senses, but Natasha didn’t like wasting hours in New York traffic, and he hadn’t complained. “Last week,” he said.

“Last _week?”_

“Sam had the flu, and mutant growth hormone is on the streets again,” Matt said by way of explanation. “When were _you_ last in the field?”

Natasha sniffed. “I won’t be today, so it’s hardly relevant. How is Sam, by the way?” She liked Sam, liked also that Daredevil’s legacy would outlive Matt, and was thereby less likely to kill him. _He’s a good kid,_ she remembered saying, when Matt talked to her about passing the mantle and protégés, and then wondering just how old she was getting, if that’s how she described a man pushing thirty.

“Fine,” Matt said shortly, and nodded at the folder in her lap. “What do you have?”

The debrief took up the rest of the flight. An hour later, they landed just outside the perimeter, a barbed wire barricade that had gone up overnight.

“Isn’t this a little . . . excessive?” Matt asked as they exited the shuttle. “He’s one man, not an invading army.”

“This is Frank we’re talking about, Matt,” Natasha reminded him. “He’s an army unto himself.”

But he wasn’t wrong; Natasha had fought off actual invading armies with less. Agents snapped to attention and saluted her as she passed the perimeter; she waved them at ease and led Matt into a tent to be outfitted, at least insofar as he would allow. He refused both the bulletproof vest and handgun offered to him, much to Carter’s dismay.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Matt,” Natasha said.

“If Frank wanted to kill me, a vest wouldn’t stop him,” Matt said with confidence. “And I don’t need a gun. He has plenty.”

Carter still hovered near him, sour-faced and unconvinced, until Natasha waved him off and he returned to his station outside the tent. “You’ll need to wear a wire.”

“Nat—”

“No. I need to know what’s going on in there,” she said, and taped it to his chest herself.

All these agents, all this hardware, and in the end, it was one, unarmed man who broke past the defenses. Natasha watched the bunker’s entrance from a monitor in the tent, listened through Matt’s wire, patched into her earpiece.

“Frank!” he called, knocking politely and a bit absurdly on the metal door. “Open up! I know you can hear me!”

Nothing. For two whole minutes, the door sat as motionless as if it were carved from stone. Sweat broke out on Natasha’s brow as she watched the feed, willing it to open and becoming more convinced by the second that it never would. What an idiot she was, to think that Frank would ever listen to reason, to think that this was anything except a complete waste of—

The door cracked open with a rusty screech, just enough for a person to squeeze through. Her agents stood at the ready in case Frank was stupid enough to stick his head out, but Natasha would bet her life that he was nowhere near that door. Then Matt stepped inside, and it slammed immediately shut.

That hurdle passed, Natasha breathed out slowly and focused all her attention on any sound that might come through the earpiece. They didn’t have eyes on the inside, and Matt couldn’t risk speaking until he found Frank, so they were—if Matt could forgive the expression—flying blind. Natasha felt sweat bead on her brow as the seconds ticked by. This was all part of the plan, but she didn’t have to like it, even if it was hers.

When a sound finally came, she was listening so hard that it made her jump. “I swear to god, Matt, of all the fuckin’ gin joints in the world,” Frank said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Matt said. “You killed three SHIELD agents, Frank. You can’t expect to walk away from this.”

“They weren’t SHIELD, they were HYDRA. And this ain’t your arena, altar boy. All that shit out there ain’t about right and wrong, or life and death. It’s just politics. I pulled SHIELD’s pants down, and now Nat’s gotta make an example of me to prove that she’s still got the stones to do the job,” Frank told him, and Natasha counted her blessings that Matt was too far away to hear her heartbeat. “C’mon, Matt. You’re too smart to believe it’s anything else.”

“Maybe,” Matt allowed. “Except you’re wrong about one thing. They weren’t all HYDRA.”

That got him; she heard it in the pause, even through an earpiece. “No, no, I checked,” Frank said. “I was sure. I _made_ sure.”

“You didn’t check enough,” Matt said, just like they’d rehearsed. “Callie Evans. She was undercover, Frank. Deep undercover, trying to discover the other agents’ connections and flush them out.”

“But those things she did, Matt. She still did ‘em,” Frank protested. “You think it matters why, or for who?”

“Do _you_ think an organization with SHIELD’s resources can’t plant a few corpses?” Matt asked in turn. “You were wrong, Frank. Callie Evans left a husband and two children behind.”

“Shit,” Frank said, and Natasha could hear in his voice that he didn’t believe Matt, not yet, but he was getting there. “So, that’s it? She sends you in and thinks I’ll just go belly-up and spend the rest of my life in a hole? Give me one good reason why I don’t turn this into a hostage situation.”

A ragged breath followed, and Natasha mentally begged Matt to hold it together for just a little longer. For just long enough to get the job done. “Because you’re old, Frank. You’re washed-up, and SHIELD doesn’t want to waste time and energy on you anymore,” Matt said, and the pain in his voice sounded real. “They’re not bringing you in, this time.”

“Is this—this is it, then?” Frank asked, almost childlike. All the fight gone out of him.

“Yes, Frank,” Matt replied, grim and serious. “This is it.”

The next sounds Natasha knew all too well, a magazine snapping into place, the safety flicked off. “Thank you for coming,” Frank said. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Natasha closed her eyes.

And snapped them open when Frank cried out. “What? No! Not like this, damn it, not like this—”

Shuffling sounds, like a struggle, or like someone falling. “Frank? You weren’t wrong,” Matt told him, and that wasn’t part of the plan, but it didn’t matter now. “Listen to me. _You weren’t wrong.”_

“No,” Frank said again, his voice getting weaker.

“Frank, I’m sorry. God,” Matt said thickly. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t let you die.” A few, tense moments later, he spoke again, measured and calm. “He’s down.”

Springing to her feet, Natasha flipped her earpiece to a new channel and gave the order almost before he finished talking.

Five minutes later, it was over. Medical personnel loaded Frank’s unconscious body onto a shuttle for transport, and Matt left the bunker unassisted and walked over to where she stood. All that remained now was getting him home, and the tedious task of extracting and cataloging the bunker’s arsenal. Knowing Frank, it would be extensive.

“Thank you, Matt,” Natasha said as he reached her. “Without your help—”

“Save it,” Matt told her. “You used me, Natasha. Frank was right—this is about politics. But that doesn’t matter,” he said, with a baring of teeth that wasn’t quite a smile. “What matters is, you would have killed him, and now you won’t. I knew what you wanted as soon as I sensed you in my office.”

His words sat in the air between them, and Natasha held her peace. He wasn’t wrong, and she wasn’t sorry.

“Please call me a car. I’d prefer not to fly,” Matt said, and, turning his back on her, headed in the direction of the perimeter fence. “I expect you to keep your word. Director.”

Once a spy, always a spy. A black widow dangling from a single thread might be a deadly thing, but a spider at the center of her own web, feeling the currents and vibrations in the gossamer strands, could influence and change the course of events with barely a twitch of her limbs. Natasha simply didn’t trust anyone else to sit where she sat. She knew how Frank Castle moved, where he stepped, and what bait would lure him. In the end, he was easy to ensnare. This was a good day, Natasha told herself, overseeing the first crate of guns carried out of the bunker. No one had died.

“Ma’am?” Carter, at her shoulder. He handed her a slim laptop and said, “There was some internal security footage. It’s saved on here.”

Natasha weighed it in her hand. “Is this the only copy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carter said.

“Thank you, Ross.” Natasha inclined her head, showing appreciation for his discretion. “If you need me, I’ll be in the shuttle.”

The laptop was password protected, but it was nothing Natasha’s training couldn’t get past. She clicked through the files until she found the correct room, and then went to the end. It didn’t have sound, but she had the recording from Matt’s wire, and cued it up until the two matched.

“Thank you for coming,” Frank said, on the screen and in her ear. “I’m glad it’s you.”

He smiled and touched his palm to Matt’s face, fit the gun in Matt’s hand with the barrel pointed at his own chest, and looked like a man who had seen salvation. Then, a blur of movement on the low-quality tape, and she saw the syringe in Frank’s neck and Matt’s hand around it, the gun lost somewhere out of the frame. Matt caught Frank’s body as he fell, his protests quieting as the sedative kicked in, and sat there cradling his body on the floor. Natasha didn’t have sound anymore, but she didn’t need it for the way Matt’s shoulders heaved, or the way he pressed a gentle kiss to Frank’s forehead, and then to his slack mouth. And when he spoke, she found she could read his lips just fine.

Natasha paused the tape and sat there with it for what felt like a very long time. The signs were all there, she thought. They’d been there for decades, possibly for longer than she’d known either of them. She’d just never seen it.

A cold certainty took hold of her—it wouldn’t have changed anything, if she knew. Natasha took one last look at the still image on the screen, and deleted the file.

*

Screeching tires and car horns blared in her ear, and she slammed her hand down on the taxi’s hood to vault herself over it and continue running across the street. The driver swore out his open window, but Yelena ignored him and kept moving, nearly tripping as she made it to the sidewalk.

 _Better, Yelena,_ she thought. _Do better._

The words of the faceless man in her nightmares, and yet the same ones she’d made into her own personal mantra, fueling her through the years since Natasha Romanoff had pulled her cryogenically frozen, ten-year-old body out of the remains of the last Red Room and brought her to America, the strange, new world. If she wanted to live up to her old mentor, if she wanted the right to call herself Black Widow, she had to _do better._ Yelena gritted her teeth against protesting muscles, and she ran.

But running wouldn’t get her to the Bronx before the train did. A sign advertising motorcycle rentals swayed in the wind, and Yelena veered sharply towards it, tossed her SHIELD credit card on the counter and flashed her badge to the stunned clerk.

“I will return for it later,” she said, and, selecting her own keys and helmet, hopped on the bike and set off, weaving in and out of traffic. The brass wouldn’t approve of her using the card for personal matters, but she’d take whatever bill and stern talking-to they gave her. This was important.

Natasha Romanoff had lived a full life, survived by a whole host of coworkers and lovers and friends. Countless lives that she’d touched. It was some of these Yelena had sworn to protect, and so she kept watch over them, and feelers out for any possible threats. She knew that on Saturdays, when the weather was warm and the sun was shining, Matt Murdock liked to visit the Botanical Garden in the Bronx. And after the better part of a decade, she knew when Frank Castle returned to the city.

A memory: Natasha as she was at the end, her once-strong body reduced to a pale and papery thing, her hair bone-white. She’d looked much older than her official age, but after years of experimentation and cryogenic freezing and more experimentation, no one could say how old she exactly was. It had caught up to her eventually, though the same intelligence shown out of her cat-green eyes right up until her last breath left her. “You must sometimes use people in our line of work, little spider,” she’d told Yelena. “But you must also be prepared for the consequences. The last time I apprehended Frank Castle, I found it necessary to use Matt to do it. However, I did not realize the advantage I sought would be so personal in nature. And now that Frank is no longer in custody . . .” She’d sighed. “If he and Matt meet again, it may not end well.”

Yelena had understood. “I won’t let you down, ma’am,” she’d promised. She never had, and didn’t intend to now. After all, she owed Natasha her life, many times over.

It was Natasha who tried to give her a normal life, placed with a normal family in Seattle. And when it became clear the Red Room’s claws had already sunk too deep, when Yelena killed the Russian agents who came for her and escaped into the surrounding national forest, only found when winter came and a snowstorm forced her into a closed roadside diner for food and warmth, it was Natasha again who came for her in person, and flew with her back to SHIELD. She remembered the room they’d locked her in, comfortable enough with a table to sit at a couch to rest on, and even a large window that overlooked the city. And most importantly, with the air intake for the ventilation system squarely over the table, which she could just reach if she stacked both chairs on top of the table and stood on her tiptoes. Yelena had crawled through it, listening to the voices below, and paused when she heard her own name discussed in Natasha’s now-familiar voice.

“I am aware Yelena is a child,” she’d said to the talking heads on the screens that Yelena could just see through the vent. “No one is more aware of that than me. I am not proposing we begin sending her on missions, for goodness’ sakes. I am proposing we educate her and train her in self-defense and technical skills. Whether she decides to use them for our purposes will be up to her.”

And, in response to one man’s question about Yelena’s trustworthiness, mental stability, and the overall wisdom of this venture, Natasha had said, “I fear that if we squander her talents, she will find an outlet for them in less savory places. I will take full responsibility for her myself.”

The call ended, and she’d looked up at the ceiling, and met Yelena’s eyes from where they peered down from the vent. “Did you catch all that, little spider?” she’d asked.

“How did you know I was there?” Yelena had asked when she’d decided against running and instead descended to the room below.

“It’s what I would have done,” Natasha had replied. “I would like to train you, Yelena. But if you come to work for us, it will be when you’re eighteen, and no sooner. And if you at any point want a normal life, I will arrange that for you. What do you say?”

Drawing herself up to her full height of four feet and eleven inches, Yelena had said, “I would like that, ma’am,” and promised, and she had so many times since, “I won’t let you down.”

The training had been harsh and unforgiving, but not like that of the Red Room. Not cruel. And it had made Yelena who she was today. She parked the motorcycle at a meter next to the gardens and continued on foot, plugging a headphone into one ear and pulling up the feed of the bug she’d planted on her phone.

Too late to follow Frank Castle onto the subway train, Yelena had managed to attach one of her surveillance spiders to his coat just as the doors slid shut. She listened to it now and heard only background chatter and traffic, the sound of the city street, and prayed that meant she was early instead of too late. The noise gave way to birdsong, and she picked up her pace.

Then, the spider picked up a singular voice. “Hello, Frank,” Matt Murdock said. “I didn’t know you were back in the city.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Frank replied. “Life’s just full of surprises.”

Yelena transitioned from a fast walk to a slow jog, and wanted to scream in frustration. Damn it, she was close, so close, but Frank had gotten there first—

“What are you doing here?” Matt asked.

“It’s a nice day. I thought I’d stop and smell the flowers,” Frank said.

Matt laughed, a humorless sound. “Seven years, Frank. I thought I’d never see you again.”

 _Good,_ Yelena thought, as the location tracker told her she was close enough, and she began climbing a tree. _Just keep him talking._

“More’n half of that was in the loony bin _you_ put me in,” Frank said, with a bite to his voice. “If you don’t count that, it’s only been about three.”

“I do count that, actually,” Matt said. “I tried to see you, but you wouldn’t accept visitors. No phone calls, letters returned unopened. I know you were angry at me, and I understand why, but I tried, and now you just—”

“Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Frank said softly, like mud under your feet ready to turn into an avalanche with one misstep.

 _There._ Yelena saw them through a gap in the branches, sitting side by side on a park bench beneath a blossoming tree. She took off her backpack and began assembling her lightweight rifle, hoping Matt kept him talking, that there was still enough time.

“What was I supposed to do? What do you want me to say?” Matt demanded. “That I’m sorry? That I wish I hadn’t done it? I can’t, alright? You would’ve died if I hadn’t.”

“Yeah, and I was fine with that. I was ready,” Frank said.

“I wasn’t!” Matt shouted, and hunched over, head in his hands.

Mirroring him, Frank leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. “They had me doped to the gills there. Did you know that? These meds that—that made me drool and fuckin’ piss myself. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t coordinate. It was worse than war, Matt,” he said. “I would’ve rather died.”

“What? Why—?” Matt asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I? What the hell would you have done, huh?” Frank snapped.

“Something!” Matt insisted. “If I’d known, I would’ve done something. And I don’t care how drugged you were, you knew that, you were just too stubborn to ask for—”

“God _damn_ it, Matt!” Frank shouted. “I didn’t want you to see me like that!”

They lapsed into silence, and Matt passed a miserable hand over his face. “What _do_ you want, Frank?” he asked.

Frank tilted his head back, looking at the tree overhead, or perhaps the sky above. “That’s the million-dollar question. See, you help save the planet, and you get pardoned. All’s forgiven. I can go where I want, now, do what I want.” He shrugged. “So long as I behave.”

“Because you’ve always been so good at that,” Matt said drolly. He sat back, and Yelena brought Frank’s head into focus through her scope. A clear shot. She curled her finger around the trigger—

And a hand closed over the barrel of her gun. Yelena swore and glared up at the red-suited, devil-horned man perched on the branch above her. “I’m working, Sam.”

“You’re not going to shoot him,” Sam said. “I won’t let you.”

“Sam,” Yelena said, trying for a reasonable tone. “I admire that you have adopted your mentor’s convictions against killing, but I really can’t fathom letting him die for it.”

“Watch, Yelena,” Sam told her. “Watch and listen.”

Yelena shook her head, but when she put her eye back up to the scope, she left her finger off the trigger.

“I’m old, Matt,” Frank was saying. “Three fuckin’ quarters of a century. Shit. I was never supposed to get this old. So the next thing I do, it’s gonna be the last. I can feel it in my bones, y’know? And I was thinking, what I want it to be, or if there’s anything I wanted to do first, and all I kept coming back to, all I kept thinking was that I . . .”

“What?” Matt prompted when he trailed off.

“I wanted to see you,” Frank said, in a raw, aching way that almost made Yelena feel guilty for listening.

Matt rubbed at his eyes, and she heard his long, shuddering breath. “For how long this time, Frank?”

“Oh, I was thinking something like every day,” Frank said. “Until one of us dies. Hopefully me, because I don’t—”

He stopped there, and his head was no longer in Yelena’s sights, because Matt kissed him with a passion that she could hear all too well through the surveillance spider. Her ears burned, and she looked up at Sam to find him smiling. “Don’t you dare say I told you so,” she said.

Sam didn’t need to; his smile communicated it well enough. “I could go for a sparring session,” he said. “How about tonight at ten? The usual place?”

“Sounds good,” Yelena said, and grimaced at the noises through her headphones—ugh. They were _still going._

“See you then,” Sam confirmed, and swung off through the trees.

An advantage of a personal nature, Yelena thought. No shit. She was about to remove her headphones and afford them a little privacy when Matt stood and faced directly where she hid.

“She’s not still trying to shoot me, is she?” Frank asked, placing a hand on the bench’s arm and using it to push himself up.

“No, she’s not,” Matt said. “Is that why you let her bug you?”

“Yeah.” Frank reached back and neatly removed the spider from his coat, dropping it into a trashcan beside the bench, while Yelena gaped in astonishment.

With that, Matt offered his hand, and Frank took it, and they began down the path together.

“How do you feel about dogs?” Frank asked.

Matt huffed in amusement or disbelief. “You haven’t even moved in yet, and you’re already asking to bring a dog?”

“Who says I’m moving in?”

“I’m far too old to go visiting you in some rat-infested, mold-ridden shithole out in Brooklyn. You wouldn’t know a creature comfort if it bit you in the ass,” Matt said. “I have plenty of room. Bring the dog.”

Their voices faded as they passed out of range of the surveillance spider. Yelena broke down her rifle into its various parts, stowed them in her backpack, and hopped down from the tree to retrieve her bug. It climbed out of the trashcan as she approached and settled into her pocket. She should have left, then, to return the motorcycle and get her credit card back before she started receiving angry phone calls from accounting, but she found herself sitting on the bench that the two men had recently occupied.

It was a fine spring day, with a light breeze and the smell of flowers in the air. Pulling out her phone, Yelena dialed a number she had memorized. “Hi,” she said. “No, I’m fine. I’m just in the city and wanted to see what you were doing later.” They made plans for that evening, and Yelena hung up smiling, and sat there for a minute longer, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin and looking forward to the future.

***

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Foggy is based pretty solely on the MCU.  
> 2\. The scene with Peter is set directly after the Omega Effect story arc. https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Omega_Effect  
> -Part 1: https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Avenging-Spider-Man/Issue-6?id=479  
> -Part 2: https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/The-Punisher-2011/Issue-10?id=2487  
> -Part 3: https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Daredevil-2011/Issue-11?id=1159&readType=1  
> The next Daredevil issue after that ^ is when Peter has to basically start stalking Matt on his dates with Kirsten because five global criminal organizations are after him lol.  
> 3\. The stuff with Diamondback Jess refers to is based off of this Defenders run: https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Defenders-2017  
> (Also if you search Jessica Jones on that site, I've read the issues besides What If? and I really liked them.)  
> 4\. Elektra is based off her MCU characterization, but the Hand is the comics version of the Hand that dissolves when you stab them, as can be seen in the 2016 Daredevil run. She and Frank were a thing in the 2013 Thunderbolts run and possibly (?) some earlier comics, but I gave them more of a personality about it than "they have sex because they both like to kill people".  
> 5\. Kate and her team are from this Young Avengers run: https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Young-Avengers-2005  
> 6\. Natasha and Matt were a thing in various comics, and the iconic "a black widow dangling from a single thread is a deadly thing" line comes from the 2014 Black Widow run, which I'm going to go ahead and link here because the art is GORGEOUS. https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Black-Widow-2014  
> 7\. I gave Yelena a different backstory than what she has in the comics to fit what I wanted to do with the scene. She's older in the comics and emerges from the Red Room as a rival to Natasha. Sam is Sam Chung a.k.a. Blindspot from the 2016 Daredevil run. He trains with Matt and does wear the Daredevil suit once when Matt needs a decoy.  
> -Yelena's intro comic: https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Black-Widow-1999 (I absolutely hate her and Nat's outfits in this, they're drawn very ~sexy~ and Yelena has her fucking midriff out the whole time, but that's neither here nor there.)  
> -2016 Daredevil run: https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Daredevil  
> -The Seventh Circle, a Daredevil vs. Punisher comic with bonus Blindspot: https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Daredevil-Punisher-The-Seventh-Circle
> 
> One additional note, as a Jew, I know that referring to the Torah and Old Testament interchangeably is Problematique(TM) and not entirely accurate, but I also don't think a former Catholic would go into a whole nuanced description for the sake of bullshitting.


End file.
